


Something Old

by bauer



Series: Delta [5]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Break Up, Infidelity, M/M, Soul Bond, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 00:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11635080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: Bad habits are hard to shake.





	Something Old

**Author's Note:**

> You know what's fucked up? Mitch Marner has an outie belly button. All these years, and I never had a clue.
> 
> For real, though, pretty much everyone in this is a dick at one point or another, in varying degrees. There is a moment of dubious consent, due to one of the partners committing a sex act that the other doesn't consent to in otherwise consensual sex, along with the mentioned possibility of mpreg. There is no actual mpreg. Otherwise, let me know if more warnings apply, and enjoy!

The centennial Leafs made it farther than anyone expected. They’re a young squad, painted as the faces of a rising nation. This isn’t going to be another fluke; Toronto hockey can only go up from here.

It’s been a  _ long  _ year for Auston. By the end of the season, he keeps himself and Mitch more and more cooped up in his room, on his bed, like they are now. Mitch thinks it’s some sort of stress-related alpha thing. It’s not too bad. Once they’re squirreled away, Auston isn’t particularly pushy, content to let Mitch straddle him and run his fingers over his face. He brushes over the soft purple under his eyes, barely any pressure, and breaks the peaceful silence to pronounce, “You look tired.”

Auston scoffs, knocking his head back for a second. “I’m fine, I’m just washed out. There’s actual sunlight in some parts of the world right now, you know.”

“You so had sisters, who the fuck bitches about being ‘washed out,’” Mitch teases, fingers catching on Auston’s jaw again. The playoff beard hasn’t been gone for long but Mitch doesn’t miss it, aesthetically. “And the weather is beautiful right now. The teens are ideal.”

The silence settles back in when Auston doesn’t respond, and Mitch gives up tracing the bridge of his nose to lean down chest-to-chest. Scenting seems redundant after how wrapped up together so much, Auston’s sheets smelling like _ them,  _ but it’s still nice sometimes. Auston likes it, helps him relax, which is probably why he asks again, “Are you coming out to Arizona this summer?”

Mitch freezes. His first instinct is to say no; he’s grateful that the desert produced Auston but is otherwise innately repulsed by it, against the heat and its parched ecosystem and the bizarre plants that thrive there. He enjoys visiting a lot of cities in the NHL, but Phoenix sent ants crawling over his skin. Figures in the one city Mitch would have been fine staying locked in his air conditioned hotel, Auston wants him to see this place, meet that person, catch up with his family, as much as possible. It made sense, it was his  _ home, _ but— 

“I dunno,” Mitch replies. “There’s stuff I’m supposed to here, and then with Worlds—”

“So you’re definitely going?” Auston interrupts. It’s not like him, but Mitch knows USA Hockey has invited him, too. That he hadn’t even seriously considered going until Mitch got the same call a little while later.

“I think so, yeah,” Mitch says. A bad heat had knocked him back last month, stupid timing that left him fully recovered with gas in the tank after the race was already over. Of course he’s going to enter another.

Auston’s chest rises and falls under Mitch’s head. He says, “Alright. I’ll call my guys in the morning.” 

“What? No, Auston, come on. You don’t want to play. You don’t have to just because I am,” Mitch objects, chin digging into Auston’s sternum. At that moment, he’s only thinking of Auston. It’d be stupid, to put himself out there just because Mitch is playing.

But Auston tucks down his chin to look at Mitch, eyebrows furrowed. It isn’t a flattering angle. He says, “I don’t want to ditch you in Europe.” 

Mitch hadn’t even been thinking that far. He assumed Auston chaperoning was a given, but if Auston’s thinking about going home— 

Mitch leans up to make his point, hands pressing into the mattress on either side of Auston’s face. “I’m not going to be alone. There’ll be a whole team there, and it’d look bad if anything happened to me. There are crazy amount of omegas on the roster this year.” More than Mitch ever played with before, that’s for sure. It hadn’t been a selling point when he made his decision, but it’ll be an interesting experience. 

Auston still looks unsure, so Mitch switches tactics, coaxing, “We’ve lived in my town all year. I know you miss your family. I don’t want you to miss them more because of me.”

Eventually, Auston squeezes Mitch’s wrist and his bracelet lying there, and whispers, “I’m going to miss  _ you.” _

“I’ll be fine,” Mitch promises, matching his tone, and leans down for a kiss.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

A tug forms in Mitch’s chest around the time land reappears beneath his window. Flying has never really bothered him before, so it takes him a minute to place the feeling. At first, he thinks the plane’s descending, or hit a rough patch of air. Then he remembers a similar sensation from the beginning of the season, when Dylan had been in Arizona. They didn’t known how long he’d be staying up at the time. 

The bond strain hurts more this time. A longer distance, exacerbated by a stronger tie. Even the best hormone blockers can only do so much against time, and Mitch isn’t allowed the best. 

He’ll buy a bottle of ibuprofen when he lands. Nothing to write home about.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Home Facetimes him first, asking about Geneva. 

“It’s sick, dude. The mountains are so close, everything looks like IG bait. Not like I’ve had time to, like, explore much, but the guys have all been so cool,” Mitch rambles on quietly. Konecny has been asleep for awhile, and with the lights out Auston is probably staring at a black screen, but Mitch can see him sprawled on his living room sofa, basking in late afternoon sun. He looks good.

“So you’re alright?” Austonasks, eyes squinting.

“Yeah?” Mitch replies. Because he is, for the most part. He’s really excited for the tournament to start for real, to play some top-end hockey with his countrymen. Especially the guys from outside Ontario, who he’s never really met before.

“I  _ miss  _ you,” Auston repeats, and a jagged pebble rattles in Mitch’s chest—his own feeling, he’s pretty sure, at this point, at that distance.

“It hurts, being away from you,” Mitch confirms, because it’s a factual statement and he’s pretty sure it’s what Auston wanted to hear, validation that he still has Mitch caught up from however far away. That being away from him causes Mitch  _ pain. _

He doesn’t mean it like that. The bond goes both ways. Still, Mitch ends the call not long after.

It goes on like that. The team relocates to Paris and get to winning. Auston blows up every messaging app Mitch owns with pictures and anecdotes of Arizona, most of it going unanswered. Mitch is at work, and his family’s there, too. It’s fair, to go a week without being preoccupied by his relationship.

Mitch spends a lot of time with Killorn, who he’d played against plenty during the season but never really  _ knew  _ before now, either. He’s an older beta who talks about Harvard in a way that he must  _ want  _ to get chirped about it, but also in a way that means they actually spend some time walking around inside the Louvre with, like, occasional context. It’s cool. Alex is an interesting guy.

Dynamics turn out to not be a big deal. A lot of the guys are betas, still, plus everyone who can has a bond, either the full-fledged, private room privilege, never separated type, or the sheer gloss of Mitch and Auston’s thing. Mitch wonders if that was an unofficial prerequisite, if it’s why he didn’t get invited until after Auston turned his team down. They’re… a poorly kept secret, to say the least, but it’s not  _ public, _ either. Not something Hockey Canada should be basing his eligibility on. Even if one of the first sentences Mackinnon says to him is, “So you’re Auston’s boy now, right?”

They’re all professionals. It shouldn’t matter.

Until it does matter, like when Barrie goes into heat, barely into the competition. The media is half-decent about it, calling it an lower-body injury, but everyone  _ knows. _

“At least we get a defensemen of actual substance out of the deal _ ,” _ Travis chirps awhile after. Colton makes a noise of polite protest as Tyson flips Travis off. They’re all in his and Mitch’s room. It’d take Duchene to make it all the omegas on Team Canada, but Tyson had joked that his alpha was the kind to only let him off the leash to play hockey, so Mitch didn’t feel guilty about not missing his company.

“They should just let you play, you were killing it,” Mitch says. He has to look down from his bed to see where Tyson’s lying on the floor, still tangy and flushed but mostly over the hill. Enough to be bored, obviously.

He snorts. “Yeah, sure, if the rest of the team, the  _ other  _ team, and everyone who showed up to the game are betas, I’d be good to go.”

“Can’t you get your alpha just knock the last of it out?” Colton asks, completely sincere. Travis laughs as Tyson sputters, and another spike of annoyance goes through Mitch. Colton smells like his alpha is lurking right behind his shoulder, constantly. Tyson barely has a suggestion, a thread leading back to himself.

Tyson speaks quickly. “It’s not like—no. Heats aren’t our thing, they don’t even want to look at me right now.”

“Seriously?” Mitch asks. “Jesus. It’s such bullshit that they just expect shit from our relationships—” 

“Double sucks if yours is playing for the other team,” Travis says, looking up from his phone significantly. Tyson’s face turns a deeper red.

Mitch retorts, defensive, “Oh, like you’ve  _ never.”  _ Travis just laughs, because he’s a dick and there’s a reason they weren’t BFFs before.

“No, nope, I take it all back, it was a joke,” Tyson yells over them, rolling onto his knees. “I gotta go jerk off again. See? The will of nature and all that, nothing you can do.”

Tyson does leave, with a trail of sweetness that confirms his excuse. After, Colton says, softly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it, Parry, Mitch is just feeling very progressive because he left his guy at home,” Travis comforts.

_ “Fuck _ you.” 

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

It sticks with Mitch, a grimy feeling on his ribs. 

The team sticks in the city of love for awhile, long enough to find a bar to repeat. It’s annoying that the Francophones keep claiming no relation, but it gives Mitch a chance to work on his French.  _ S’il vous plaît, une bière, un shot— _

Maybe Mitch better than he thought, because an alpha sidles up to the bar and starts talking to  _ him  _ in French. She has a heady sort of scent, deep and earthy like her hair, her eyes. There’s an expectant gleam in them that pins Mitch where he stands. It takes him a second to say, “Uh, je suis canadien,  mon français est terrible.”

The alpha tosses her hair back and laughs, another wave of scent. “You are an honest Canadian, at least,” she teases. “Are you one with a name?”

“Mitchell. Mitch,” he replies, heart pounding.

“Mitch,” she repeats. “I’m Farah. What are you doing tonight?”

A warm arm slides over his shoulder as a voice says, “He’s supposed to be getting us drinks. Come on.” Farah doesn’t seem thrilled to be interrupted by an beta, but she doesn’t argue as Mitch grimaces, collects his drinks, and is led away by Alex.

“That really wasn’t necessary,” Mitch complains back at the table. They’re the only ones holding it down, everyone else out dancing or getting the drinks Mitch refused to play waitress for.

Alex levels a flat look at him, glances significantly at his hand, his wrist, and then says, “Aren’t you bonded with that Matthews kid?”

A string snaps. Mitch has always liked attention, that he’s always had his choice of partners. It’s about the only thing he  _ liked  _ about presenting. With Auston, it’s always been a game, that Mitch is one of the most desired omegas in Toronto—if only for the novelty of fucking a Leaf—but he’s the one who caught him. Tonight, though, Auston isn’t there to keep him, has no way of even knowing. Mitch has had his cell phone on do not disturb all day.

“Yeah, but it’s like, what do you think he’s doing back home?” Mitch blurts out. “I don’t want to know. Don’t want to hear about it. And he doesn’t want to know about me. When we’re apart.”

Mitch doesn’t even know what he was thinking, if he actually wanted to go back and talk to Farah or if he just wanted someone to stop talking about Auston for five seconds, but he tries not to fidget under Alex’s glaze. It takes a dedicated effort not jerk in surprise when a hand comes up, thumb pressing at his bottom lip.

“How’s your mouth?” Alex asks. A chipped tooth, he knows. They both laughed when it happened.

“Still a little raw,” Mitch admits. He lets his mouth hang open a little at the end, to be pushed a fraction wider, and prays none of the US guys ended up at the same bar.

Alex says, “I think I have some Asprin back in my room.”

It’s a short walk back. They don’t kiss, ostensibly because of the tooth. Alex gets Mitch on his stomach, head in his arms and hips propped up on a shitty hotel pillow. The room looks exactly like Mitch’s, roommate long gone. “You’re so fucking wet,” Alex says, but his hands feel sure as they grip onto Mitch, fingers fucking into him steadily. It feels surreal. Mitch never understood how people could  _ do  _ this. There’s a pull in his chest that doesn’t lessen the feel of another cock sliding into him, working over him the way only betas really bother to. Slick is dripping down the inside of his thighs.

Alex comes on his back. He leans down to finish Mitch off, but Mitch grabs the hair at the crown of his head and nudges further down, hesitantly, to where his dick is hard between his legs. In response, Alex flips Mitch onto his back and sucks him off  _ hard,  _ until Mitch has to clench his whole body to make a sound.

After, Mitch takes the stairs up to his room. Travis is already in bed, lights off, so Mitch is quiet getting into the shower. There isn’t much to wash off. Betas are easy like that. It leaves Mitch without a mark to show for it. Untarnished, as far as his bond is confused.

It takes an hour of lying in bed for Mitch to check his phone. The most recent messages, spaced a couple hours apart: 

**-Cheering for Willy now BTW, Finland really is the worst** ****  
**-Afternoon game really wipe you out that much?**   
**-Cannot fucking wait for Aruba <3**

Mitch replies with every emoji even tangentially related to beaches and three blue hearts, and then several Canadian flags.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

He thinks about just breaking it off, really, he does. The summer would give them time to cool off, and if things are still awkward in the fall, well, it wouldn’t be the first time. They’d keep it professional.

Except, there’s only a week between actually losing to fucking Willy (they hug it out, it’s fine, but nobody likes losing) and the vacation they’ve had planned for six months. Aruba started as a thing between Mitch and his buddies, a few guys from London and his brother. Then a few of them wanted to bring along their girls, and in the dead of winter, there was no reason to not want Auston there, too.

The flight in from Toronto gets in first. Most of the guys head straight down to the beach, but Mitch lingers in their suite. Auston is stranded in Atlanta between flights, bored and in need of entertainment.

_ I told you it was worth just getting a direct flight, _ Mitch texts.

Auston responds with a meme of Mitch’s own face, because that’s his life now. His phone clatters a little when he puts it down, Mitch accidentally exerting a little more force than necessary. He cringes, then jumps when Chris shows up behind him. “What’s the matter, you two fighting or something?” he says. Mostly joking, Mitch thinks.

“No, just…” Mitch trails off. He hasn’t told anyone about Paris. Doesn’t know how to explain it without incriminating himself. What he could even say about it in terms of  _ Auston. _

Chris’ face becomes a fraction more serious. “Everyone has down moments. It’ll good for you to be back together, you know?”

Mitch makes a vague noise of a agreement. He picks up his phone— screen uncracked, thank god—and texts Auston that they’ll talk later. The water looks beautiful.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

They’re coming up for lunch when the final member of their party comes knocking. Mitch goes to let him in, and his breath catches at the overjoyed smile that stretches across Auston’s face before he draws Mitch in tight. There’s a duffle bag hanging over his shoulder, but it’s still easy, automatic to wrap his arms around Auston and squeeze him back tight. Auston tucks his face into Mitch’s neck, breathes him in deep as he runs his fingers over Mitch’s back. He steps back before it gets inappropriate, but the look in his eyes, the raw affection, sticks. Even after the drain of ten hours in flight, Auston looks so fucking happy to be there.

“Hey,” he says, dazed. “You look good.”

Mitch’s chest hurts just looking at him. “You do, too. I missed you.”

He means it, is the thing. 

They drop Auston’s things in their room before joining the boys. He’d already met the Chrises, hockey proves a reliable bridge for Aaron and Zach, and the girlfriends are chill. Auston slides in with them easily, making easy conversation until it’s time to head back down to the water.

“It’s fucking beautiful here,” Auston says to general agreement. And then, lower, so only Mitch can hear, “Not as beautiful as you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mitch replies, face flushing, like the sun wasn’t enough. Auston just laughs.

That night, Auston spreads Mitch out on their bed and eats him out until his legs tremble, then fucks him deep and slow, knots him, spends the time they’re stuck together mouthing at Mitch’s shoulders, his hands running over every inch he can reach. When his cock finally slides free, Auston keeps his fingers at Mitch’s hole, petting, then rubbing his own come into Mitch’s thighs.

Mitch forgot how hot being scented is, after being separated for so long. It feels like his brain has evaporated out of his skull.

The week goes by in a glorious blur. It’s easy to forget any frustration, with Auston right in front of him. He’s such a good guy. One of the best people Mitch has ever been with. On the last day, Auston forfeits the beach to loiter on the shaded balcony with Mitch, who’d finally burned past bearable and needs to re-apply aloe every hour. Auston doesn’t seem bothered. The hotel wifi lets him keep Netflix up. He’s watching some cartoon, but Mitch is watching him. He’d been right before; summer does look good on Auston. It’s so easy to find contentment, being with him. Mitch makes a decision.

“I’ll come to Arizona, if you still want me,” Mitch offers quickly. “I really do still have some obligations in Toronto, but after…”

Auston looks over at him. His face radiates how pleased he is, even as he hedges, “Yeah? I don’t know, man, I think I might be full-up until the start of the season.”

“Or I could not, you’re right, no need to tempt the sun twice in so little time—”

Auston laughs, and says, “You should come at the end of the month, beginning of July. Freddie’s having a party, we could head out to California for a few days. It’d be little cooler, for your delicate sensibilities.”

Mitch scoffs at the insult but starts poking at the calendar on his phone, trying to figure out what dates would work. The NHL Awards is in a few weeks, before the block Auston’s inviting him for, but they’d already talked about that. Same as All-Star Weekend. Mitch will go when he’s invited.

They fuck again that night. Auston lets Mitch ride him.

In the morning, it seems like everyone of them left packing for the last second, racing against their checkout time, then their takeoff time. Auston is on a later connecting flight than the rest of them, to Miami instead of Orlando, leaving him in a comparatively zen-like state as everyone else’s shit starts flying. Mitch is fairly sure Auston’s the only reason half of his things actually ended up in his carry on instead of on the end table or under their bed. Staying with him is the right decision.

There are good reasons for keeping a tight lid on some things, proven when Chris leans over mid-flight and says, “So…?”

“We’re cool,” Mitch confirms, confident, and doesn’t elaborate. He made one mistake. He’ll make up for it, go to Arizona, be a good boyfriend. They’ll be fine.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Sky Harbor is surrounded by a low, wide city sprouting out of flat, brown, dry land. It’s as straightforward as any other airport he’s been in. Lots of windows. Mitch texts Auston to pull around, feeling good about the trip. He’s missed Auston in the last month.

He feels good about it, until he finally steps outside.

There are no words to describe the heat of the American Southwest. 

Mitch locates Auston’s car quickly, a black Lexus, and yells at him, “Do not get out of the car!” Auston seems to get the message. The trunk pops open, and Mitch throws in his bag before climbing into the passenger seat posthaste. “What,” he says, “The fuck.”

“Yeah, we’re in a little bit of a heatwave. You’re lucky, a few days ago planes couldn’t come through,” Auston says, all casual, as he reaches out and grabs onto Mitch’s wrist seemingly content. He still looks fucking amazing, of course, unphased and tan with sunlightened hair.

“What the fuck!” Mitch repeats. He feels disgustingly sweaty after thirty seconds, and allows the contact only as a compromise to turn up every knob he can reach. “Have you seen those screenshots of, like, King of the Hill or something—”

Auston cuts him off as he whips off the curb, “Yes, I have seen the King of the Hill screenshots. Are you hungry?” 

They’re quiet on the drive back to Auston’s house. Neither had been up to too much—some sponsor shit, some local camps, and a whole lot of training—but they’ve been texting the whole time. It’s just nice to be together again. 

Mitch does not feel guilty about running for the next air conditioned enclosure when they roll to a stop in front the Matthews family home. It’s not the first time he’s visited, so Mitch feels less guilty throwing open their door and closing it quick behind him. Their living room is comparatively frigid. Mitch breathes a sigh of contentment, then looks around. Breyana is peering at him from the couch, legs kicked on the coffee table, ESPN on the TV. “S’up?” Mitch says in greeting.

She chucks deuces in response. The resemblance is truly uncanny.

Auston trails after at a leisurely pace, unbothered by the burden of Mitch’s luggage. He nods at his sister, and to Mitch says, “Come on, my room’s upstairs.”

“Gross,” she says. Auston flips her off and nudges Mitch towards the stairs. 

They don’t fuck right away. Auston’s room has old jerseys on the wall and trophies stacked high on shelves, just like Mitch’s and every other player like them. It still feels like Auston’s space, in little ways. Neater, for instance, but with more CDs and artsy shit than Mitch has ever seen him use but knows he likes having _. _

The whole house smells like him, although that makes sense. The rest of his family are betas. No competition. Mitch doesn’t smell like him anymore, though, and that’s just not acceptable. They strip down and lie in Auston’s old double, let’s Auston fold himself over him and suck a hickey onto his collarbone. Most of the time, it would have been low enough to cover. Mitch anticipated this would be a very tank top heavy week.

“When has this ever been a comfortably sized bed for you?” Mitch asks after awhile of them being folded together. Auston is an acceptable heat, but he’s still  _ heat. _

Auston laughs against his neck and says, “I was a skinny dude in high school.”

“Bullshit,” Mitch scoffs.  _ He  _ was skinny in high school. No one’s ever doubted Auston’s frame.

And then Auston insists, “Seriously, I was, like, you-sized.”

“Fuck off,” Mitch groans. He tries to throw Austons off, admittedly not all full-strength, but Auston just laughs and rubs his face on Mitch’s chest.

The scenting has gotten lazy, closing in on napping, by the time they hear Auston’s parents come home. He doesn’t let Mitch get out of bed to greet them. “They know we’re here, don’t worry about it,” he says.

“I’m not worried, I just don’t want to be a shitty guest,” Mitch argues.

“You’re not, you’re jetlagged, sleep it off with me,” Auston whines, clinging with full force, body mostly on top of Mitch. “Seriously, relax. Nuestra casa es tu casa and such.”

Mitch suspects it has more to do with the lulling warmth than the plain ride, but once he sighs his defeat, it’s easy to slide into sleep, his omega hindbrain stupidly content folded up under Auston after so long.

It’s still light out when they wake up, not that that says anything at this time of year. Something smells fucking delicious, though.

“Mom wanted to make you something special,” Auston mumbles, still groggy. They’re practically glued together, tacky from sweat. Auston has always run hot. Mitch doesn’t understand how he lives.

“Is it tortilla soup?” Mitch guesses. When Auston doesn’t say anything, he continues, “Has anyone ever called you predictable?”

“The proper attitude to be showing right now is  _ gratitude  _ that we’re actually getting it fresh today instead out of a Tupperware container, asshole,” Auston says, not actually sounding that bothered. He crawls over Mitch to get out of bed, tugs his briefs back into place, scratches his side.

Mitch can’t help but stare. It’s a lot of skin. Auston’s put weight back on over the summer, making him look as strong as Mitch knows he is. Mitch asks, “You want to shower before going down?”

They  _ do  _ fuck in the shower. Take long enough to make it look like they took separate ones. If Mitch’s face is still flushed when he meets the extended Matthews family for maybe the fourth time, well, he’s never developed a taste for cold showers. Alex shows up despite having her own apartment closer to her school, either to get to know Mitch more or to cop some of that soup everyone is in love with. Including Mitch, by the end of the night. 

Some of the people Mitch dated had families he was more than happy to avoid. The Matthews’, though, they were good people. Funny. Relaxed. It made sense that this is where Auston is from. Mitch can’t help but love them a bit for that.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Mitch comes downstairs the next morning to Ema saying something—no clue what, he’d taken French in high school and hadn't thought much of it since then—and Auston responding, “Probably not, I was going to take him out somewhere.” There’s another question as Mitch walks into the kitchen; it sounds teasing but Auston’s response is sharper, exasperated, “I don’t know, Mom—”

He catches sight of Mitch and jumps up from the kitchen island. His hand curls around Mitch’s shoulder, turns him around, says back towards Ema, “We’re going out by the pool, holla if you need us.”

“Oh, no, please, give me some peace,” Ema responds. She’s smiling at the two of them, fondness shining through. Mitch waves at her as he’s dragged away.

Auston swore the temperature would be fine if they went out early enough, which was clearly a  _ lie. _ Mitch’s skin prickles immediately, an immediate seep of sweat. “God, how do people  _ live?” _ he moans. Auston just gives him that look and keeps pushing forward. He even has the nerve to try and pull Mitch onto one of the lounge chairs with him. Mitch fends him off heartily, but drags another chair closer so they’re armrest-to-armrest. He does not make his arm available for any accidental brushing, but it’s a compromise.

He’d brought extra strength sunscreen in an attempt to seem prepared, but it feels like a wasted effort under the judgment of an Arizona sun. Desperate to draw out the inevitable, Mitch asks, “So what were you two talking about?”

Auston grunts and scrunches his nose for a second. “She wanted to know if we were going to be home for dinner. Which you weren’t supposed to hear. Surprise, I got us a reservation at this really nice place. You’ll like it.” He’s silent long enough that Mitch assumes that’s the end of it, but then he starts again, quicker, like he’s trying to out-talk his thoughts. “And then she was giving me shit about not responding in Spanish and, like, it’s not  _ easy  _ to retain what I knew when I was kid, before I moved away from everything. Even if I think I know how to respond, I—I don’t know. I wish I was better at it than I am.”

It catches Mitch off-guard. Auston isn’t usually one to lay things out, even-keeled most of the time and satisfied by a poke or a prod or a grimace when he’s not. Mitch has no clue how to respond; how much has he heard Auston speak Spanish? Yesterday, sure, kinda, but before that… maybe a fragment talking to his sisters, or some other little phrases anyone could have picked up, or making fun of Willy for not knowing what queso was—

“You always sound good to me,” Mitch says, haltingly but truthfully. “Isn’t adapting to multiple languages the hard part? You’ve already got that, you probably could pick it up again, if you want. I mean, if Leo can know so many…” 

He trails off, not wanting to dig a deeper pit if he’s saying the wrong things, but Auston just shrugs. His posture is relaxed, face easily flat. Mitch isn’t sure if he actually helped or if all Auston needed was to vent, but after another minute of silence, Mitch announces, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Mitch raises from the chair, takes a few shorts steps, and falls with purposeful gracelessness into the pool, hoping to catch Auston in the splash. 

He cools off in easy, blissful silence, until he gets bored of that and climbs out to belatedly take Auston up on his cuddle offer. Auston doesn’t lower himself to anything as undignified as a yelp, but there is some squirming as Mitch settles in, who delights in finding Auston starting to get slick in the heat, too.

“Your shorts are stupid,” Mitch says, head on Auston’s stomach and fingers tugging at the leg of said stupid, tight shorts, poking in, exposing his stupid tanline. “You know these are for swimmers, right?”

“You think I’m not a competitive swimmer?” Auston asks as he extracts Mitch’s fingers. The rejection is lessened when he twines their fingers together, and says, “We can’t do anything out here, my mom could see us.”

“Do you think she’s looking?” Mitch asks. He turns his mouth against Auston’s abs, meaning to blow a raspberry but instead lingering there, mouth open, salt on his tongue. A part of him knows this is the bond reinforcing itself, but that doesn’t lessen how good it feels to be with Auston.

Auston growls, and through several feats of strength and agility, they both end up in the pool. It’s too much of a relief to be a punishment, but Mitch stills tries to dunk him in retribution. Once they’re tangled close again, Mitch stares, lifts his hand, and says, “Ha, you still got bags.”

“Okay, jesus, you don’t need to poke my eye out,” Auston grouses, grimacing and moving his head back, only to drag them back down below the lip of the pool. The kiss is chaste except for how it keeps going in a slow drag, leaving Mitch’s mouth feeling raw as Auston finally whispers against them, “Love you.” 

“Me, too,” Mitch says, before getting dunked himself. 

They float around for a long while, lazily trying to drown each other until Mitch’s shoulders go pink. Their afternoon doesn’t pick up from there. Auston blows off road hockey with a couple of his buddies. Breyana, with glint in her eyes, tries to goad Mitch into playing a round of golf against her, which he rejects automatically. Says she can come up to Ontario sometime, play on equal turf.

Sunset comes earlier than Mitch expects. Time is weird in Arizona on, like, a political level. Him and Auston spend half an hour in the bathroom trying to fix the one nice shirt Mitch brought with Auston’s steamer, and when they come out, it’s dark. They leave for dinner not long after. 

It turns out to be a steakhouse, unsurprisingly, but Mitch likes steak. The atmosphere isn’t too stuffy, and, when Mitch presses his luck and tries to order a beer, their waiter doesn’t ID them. Still, the menu had a lot of experimental stuff that Mitch’s eyes skip over, until they catch on some fancy guacamole that is probably way less avocado than it has any right to be. “Do you want to try the guac?” he still asks. While in Rome and all.

“You  _ know  _ I want the guac,” Auston replies, not looking up from his menu. Mitch wonders how many times he’s been here. If the one they usually go to in Toronto is more familiar to him now.

He doesn’t linger on the thought, but another shakes loose, something he picked Buzzfeed or somewhere. “Isn’t this, like, the difference between Tex Mex and real Mexican food? Beef and yellow cheese?”

Auston does look at that. He’s silent for a second, then says, “I guess. There were a lot of ranches around where my mom grew up, though. Lots of cows.”

It’s weird, that after eight months that Mitch has never really thought of Auston as, like,  _ Mexican. _ He knew, obviously, but Auston never really talked about it on a personal level. Mitch guesses that’s the whole point of relationships. To keep learning each other.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

In the fall, Mitch moves into Auston’s condo. He keeps his own—real estate is a good investment—but they had a good summer. A  _ great  _ summer. It’s the natural next step. More and more, the transgression in May feels like a fluke. Mitch forgets about it, most of the time. He loves Auston. That’s all that matters.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Every light in the apartment is off. Mitch keeps his eyes clenched shut, gritting his teeth against the tooth of their sheets. His skin feels raw, untouched, blistering. The bond tugs tight in his chest. He’s been alone for  _ hours, _ it’s so fucking  _ wrong.  _

An eon later, steps echo down the hall. The scent hits him before the panic, so he doesn’t resist the hands repositioning him on his stomach, pulling his own fingers out of his hole. Auston whispers little soothing things, “I’m sorry, baby, I left as fast as I could, I won’t leave again, I promise—”

Mitch is so wet that he’s practically swimming in his own slick but  _ sore,  _ too. It makes Auston pushing in easy but hard to take. He’s so thick, everywhere, and it fills Mitch up with the heat of a stretching muscle, straining as Auston works himself in, making an even deeper claim in Mitch. His hand is on the back of Mitch’s neck, gripping, and all he do is cry and drool and make the bed even messier.

The knot comes like a cramp, bad then worse then levying a deep relaxation that leaves Mitch limp. His mind clears a little, finally. Auston’s hand is low on his stomach, his thumb rubbing below his belly button. Mitch grabs it, squeezes tight. He swallows twice, mouth dry, and asks, “What was the score?”

“... 2-3. Overtime.” Auston speaks softly, like he needs to handle Mitch with kiddy gloves while he’s tied to him. Mitch groans miserably.

“This is bullshit,” Mitch says. “We can’t fucking start the season like this.  _ I  _ can’t be fucking missing games because they messed up my schedule. They need to find an endocrine guy who's acutally worked with omegas before.”

When the preseason started, everyone wanted to talk to him about the draft, what it meant to him that so many omegas went this year. Seven guys, out of over two hundred. None to Toronto. Most of them college guys.

Auston holds him a little closer, carefully, as to not jostle where they’re joined. “It sucks playing without you. I felt so bad, leaving you behind for—”

Mitch turns his head and bites Auston’s bicep, not viciously but harder than he would jokingly, too. “Save your pity for me. If I’m not ready by Monday, I swear to god, I’m sterilizing myself.”

The notion makes Auston twitch, suppressed by still noticeable. Mitch rolls his eyes as Auston composes himself to say, “You will be, I know. Just… compared to yesterday, or  _ Thursday.” _

“Well, Thursday I was recovering from your complete abandonment, so—” Mitch cuts in, just to hear Auston moan and apologize again, forehead rolling over Mitch’s shoulder.

“You’ll be fine,” Auston promises. “And if you’re not, I’ll help.”

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

They get in a fight two days after their anniversary. It’s over something stupid. Mitch storms out of the apartment and calls some of his local boys, leaves Brownie and them to get Auston drunk and listen to him call Mitch a bitch.

He meets Ethan and Josh in their usual bar near their university. There’s no point in trying to talk through the irritation rolling in his stomach; after so many years of dealing with Mitch’s relationship drama, they’d probably laugh at him, or indulge in the more recent trend of telling him not to do anything to upset Auston’s point streak. They’re decent guys, for the most part, and make a good backdrop to Mitch getting wasted.

The night goes on, and some school friends drop into their little party. An alpha, who introduces himself as George, is one of them. He’s quiet, but his eyes keep sliding over Mitch, heavy. Mitch wonders if it’s arrogant to assume everyone recognizes him as Mitch Marner, number sixteen for the Maple Leafs. 

He didn’t mean to leave his bracelet at home, on their bathroom sink. The fight was right after he got out of the shower. It always makes Auston agitated, the nullifying soap Mitch used.

He’s not—there’s no  _ plan  _ as George loosens up. He’s not really funny but he’s light-hearted, easy to converse with. They mostly talk about George’s classes, which he seems passionate about but sound awful to Mitch. It’s sweet.

“Can I get you a drink?” George asks eventually.

Mitch doesn’t quite startle, even as his chest pounds. Not his heart. “Oh. Um. Sure, yeah, why not.”

He picks absently at the beer label sitting in front of him. Ethan and Josh are chatting up some omegas, seeming to have forgotten why they came out tonight, which is fine by Mitch. His mind feels clear now. 

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Mitch freezes cold as a voice says, quietly, next to his ear, “Will you please come home?”

Adrenaline spiking, Mitch’s eyes cut to the bar. George is still waiting, fidgeting with his phone. The bartender isn’t busy. No time for anger, or pride. Mitch pushes away from the table and walks out the bar, blood rushing in his ears, trusting Auston to follow.

His car is parked illegally outside. Once they’ve settled, Mitch rests his forehead against the window, looking out. It’s cool to the touch. The temperature has started to drop. “How did you even find me?” Mitch asks.

There’s time for Auston to shrug before he responds, “You only go so many places when you’re with your other friends. Got lucky. This was the second guess.”

Mitch doesn’t respond, doesn’t look at him. It’s not a surprise when Auston’s hand comes up to wrap around the nape of neck, but it makes him twitch, squeezing his shoulders up. “You don’t have to  _ do  _ that all the time—”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Auston drops his hand. Mitch rubs his nose hard.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

For winter break, they go to Arizona. Their first game after is against the Yotes, and they’d spent both Thanksgivings in Toronto. It’s a fair trade. The Matthews do midnight mass, but other than that, it’s a nice holiday. Not too hot. Mitch pays for Breyana to beat him at golf, as previously promised. 

Briefly, Mitch wonders what Dylan is up to.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

On the first game back home, Auston goes into the boards. Mitch doesn’t realize anything is wrong until their shift is over. Further down the bench, Auston is hunched over, a trainer in his ear. Mitch tips forward and yells, “Matts, you alright?”

Auston just shakes his head, although Mitch isn’t sure what he’s responding to. 

During intermission, Mitch gets his skates taken care of, then goes to check on Auston. He’s sprawled out on the trainer’s table, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other held awkwardly to the side. “Will he live, doc?”

“No,” Auston says, flat. 

The trainer speaks over him—and he maybe he shouldn’t be saying anything, except their bond is probably in their medical folders—and explains. Not that there’s much to explain. Shoulder is a little jacked. Might be back for the third, depending on how the next ten minutes go.

“Baby,” Mitch accusses. Auston flips him off.

Mitch does feel guilty when Auston is back on the bench with fifteen minutes to go. He watches him out of the corner a little more than he should, resulting in a stupid giveaway that Freddie will get him for later. After that, Mitch dials into his game. The other team is getting sloppy, but no one can get a puck into the back of their net. It ends in another loss, punctuated by an empty netter.

It’s a shitty way to go. When they get back to the condo, Mitch gives Auston a consolation blowjob. He keeps his hand on the crown of Mitch’s head, but that’s it.

The next morning, their alarm is slammed off a handful of seconds after it goes off. Fine by Mitch—he’s always quick to wake up and lay claim to the first shower. Auston is the deep sleeper who lets the first one go, then snoozes the second, third, fourth rings, only to roll out of bed an hour after the initial alarm. Mitch leans up on his elbow, looks down at Auston, face down in his pillow and tense, and asks, “Are you alright?”

Auston doesn’t respond. Mitch says, “Seriously?”

Mitch drives them to practice. He leaves Auston to the trainers without a word, takes to the ice agitated. Auston isn’t there for off-ice, or video review. “Is he, you know,” Willy asks, making a lewd fist motion, between Babcock fumbling with the different programs their video coach uses. Bet  _ that  _ never makes it on Blueprint.

“Would I be here if he was?” Mitch retorts, even though a part of him shudders at the thought of inducing a rut in Auston. It’s not even  _ possible— _

Well. After a year and three heats? Mitch forgets he’s at the point where things can start to get serious, sometimes. Feels stupid for it.

Not as stupid as Auston, who reappears sheepishly in the car afterwards. They barely make it out of the parking lot before Mitch is saying, “Listen, I’m sorry for joking about your virility or whatever last night, but you knew better than to go back out there,  _ what  _ the  _ fuck?” _

“I felt fine then,” Auston grumbles. He’s looking out the window, squinting until he remembers his sunglasses. It’s the first time the overcast has lifted all week.

Mitch wants to scream, but he can’t, because of Auston’s head. Three months is long enough for faults to be teased out. They hadn’t even been road roomies last year, officially. Teams liked to keep the dynamics segregated.

“It’s not like we would have missed you out there in the end, you didn’t do shit,” Mitch bites out. He hears Auston inhale, but nothing follows.

Taciturn. Overconfident.  _ Entitled  _ to Mitch’s support. Fuck it.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Auston wants to come on the road trip.

“What? No. _ No one’s _ partner comes on roadtrips. We’re not asking for special treatment,” Mitch say, teeth clenched, gearing up for a fight.

It doesn’t take a fight. Auston stays home. 

On the flight, Mitch is squirrelly. More so than usual. It feels like when he first left for London and realized his billet parents didn’t much care what time he came home or where he was, as long as he didn’t make waves. They land in Philly early and squeeze in a light practice. After, Mitch gets dinner with a couple guys. It’s still an early night. No one questions when Mitch breaks off to his room. 

Once he’s alone, if feels impossible to relax, ants crawling over his nerves. He spends a couple minutes poking around online as he paces from one courner to another, some action movie playing on the background. Then, he pulls up his Travis’ number. The last text was from over the summer, and Mitch hesitates for a few seconds before sending:  _ Where do you usually go out? Not for like a beer _

Travis answers quick, like the vulture he is. **Enjoying your time off the leash?**

Blood rushes in Mitch’s ears, and he misses the aggression of an actual keyboard as he responds,  _ What the fuck it’s for the rest of the boys. How’s law doing? _

**Lol k. You talk to Dylan recently?**

**Really marns when did you get so serious**

Mitch doesn’t know. He’s barely thinking at all, when Travis finally sends an address.

The night before a game, curfew rolls into effect at midnight. Mitch is in the hotel elevator by 11:45, sleepy and content. Vindicated. 

The ice machine’s rattling as Mitch walks by, and when he glances in, he sees Matt filling his bucket. He’s shirtless, with old sweatpants barely pulled up over black briefs. Mitch has seen all that and more before, in the locker room, but it feels different tonight, under these lights. It takes effort to focus on Matt’s jaw nodding up and saying, “Hey, Mitchy. Did you just get back from somewhere?”

“Uh,” Mitch starts. “Yeah. Mini Worlds reunion.”

“Oh, so Giroux and them?” Matt says. The sound of falling ice finally stops. It leaves the room sounding pressingly quiet, almost awkward.

“Ah, no, minier. Just Konecny and a few of his dudes,” Mitch recovers. He has no clue if Matt and G even know each other, or why he’d even check up after Mitch. They’ve never really been hung out together. It got weird, sometimes, between alphas on the same team, and Auston’s claim on Mitch always came first.

A few hours ago, Mitch was tipsy. He’s not now, so there’s no reason for a wave of heat to roll over his face as Matt looks him over once and says, “Sounds like a fun night. Don’t be a stranger, alright?” As he walks past Mitch, he digs his fingers into the side of Mitch’s neck, palm wide and hot against his shoulder.

Mitch watches him go. He has really wide shoulders.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

They’re back in town for a game against Colorado. Mitch takes the team’s scorn and meets up with Tyson to stretch at center ice. It takes him a few extra seconds to find Tyson, because the last time Mitch saw him, he still smelled all bubblegum and sugar, so rottingly sweet it was almost a joke. Now? Nothing. A hint of pine. Mitch wonders if him and Auston are this obvious, on the ice. “It’s been a _ month, _ dude,” Mitch says, astonished.

“You’ll understand when you’re my age,” Tyson says sagely, but also like it’s a joke.

“God, I hope not, you’re not that much older than me,” Mitch responds. A hint of gold catches his eye, the same sort of game-safe necklaces every omega in this league ends up with. “What happened to, ‘Oh, it’s not  _ like  _ that, my alpha isn’t all over me, we’re  _ chill.’  _ Did you get pregnant or something?”

Mitch is mostly just fucking with him, but it’s funny to watch Tyson fluster and turn red. “No! God! I’m playing, aren’t I?”

“I heard you can get away with a lot of shit in your first trimester,” Mitch says. He wants to keep poking but has enough sense to let it go. There are limits.

Their team doesn’t leave them alone for much longer, though, herding them into pre-game rituals that can’t be ignored.

Colorado wins, because that’s the sort of time the Leafs are having.

Mitch goes back to the apartment, where they have become very dependent on the soft lighting of lamps. He finds Auston sprawled out in front of their (dulled, quieted) TV, watching random post game shows. Auston looks about as happy as Mitch feels, only worse, because he couldn’t even be at the arena. Mitch’s chest twinges, and he reaches out over the back of the couch to squeeze Auston’s bicep as he coos, “My poor trapped lion.”

Auston shrugs him off. “Stop making fun of me.”

Like that, Mitch’s sympathy evaporates. He rolls his eyes and walks back to their bedroom without another word. He throws off his suit in exchange for some old sweats. Still Leafs, although from before he started getting it for free. Mostly, Mitch just wants to go to bed, but he knows he’s too squirrelly to actually pass out, and he’s years deep in trainers drilling in good sleep habits. Beds are only for sleeping and fucking.

Back in the living room, Mitch curls up in one of their chairs, facing the TV; they’re talking about the Sens’ game now. Maybe he can outwait Auston and  _ he’ll  _ go to bed, so Mitch doesn’t have worry about the optics of CoD.

There’s nothing for awhile, long enough for them to loop back to their game—5-1 to the Avs, god,  _ how— _ and for Auston to finally say, “That was a sick shot you had, in the second.”

Mitch snorts, and says, “Did it go in, though?” and then, “You were watching?”

Auston gestures. “Highlights. Missed being out there with you guys.”

Mitch sighs. “Miss you, too. Maybe you could’ve picked up my rebound.”

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

In Chicago, they get caught up in the beginnings of a fucking miserable blizzard. Breathing stings all the way down as they disembark the plane, and it’s only going to get worse from there. Everyone unanimously agrees on a night in, transporting their card game from the plain to a hotel desk. Mitch isn’t sure if his social life has actually narrowed around Auston or if it just feels like it, but it’s nice, just being Mitch. Nice having his bed to himself again.

They lose. No one likes it, but at least the Hawks are on a hot streak. They’re all happy to get on a plane and head south. 

They lose in Dallas, and it is  _ infuriating. _ Mitch’s blood pressure stays high, even after the final buzzer. He’s hurting, and sick of the shit some guys get away with, and angry that he can’t  _ say  _ anything. The articles about the whiny omega who needs to learn his place would write themselves. 

The storm that was in Chicago made its way to Toronto. It feels bizarre to be grounded for bad weather in seventy degree weather. There’s five days until their next game. Another night in the hotel it is. Mitch texts Auston about the change but doesn’t get a response. It’s late by the time the team has resettled, late enough that Mitch should be able to settle, but he  _ can’t.  _

It’s Thursday, and Dallas is big enough, has enough universities for this to be the weekend. Chris’ old drivers license is burning a hole through his wallet. A few drinks with some fresh faces isn’t anything. It’ll be refreshing.

Mitch digs through his luggage until he finds his nice jeans and a flimsy, clingy lulu shirt he’s never actually worked out in. He triple-checks his phone charge, keys, and wallet, then feels vain looking at himself in the mirror before leaving, but he likes how he looks. Likes that he’s finally settling into being independent, looking older (bit by bit, he’ll take anything), going out for drinks after work. It feels very mature.

He’s in a rush to leave, doesn’t think to call a car until he’s already in the elevator, where his reception cuts out until he reaches the bottom floor. He sprawls across one of the lobby chairs and watches as his Lyft slowly creeps closer, impeded by stop lights. His heal bounces idly against the floor, then jerks hard when another foot purposefully comes in contact with his ankle. Mitch looks up from his phone, eyes wide, heart pounding, to see Matt looming over him, and behind him, a few more of the older guys walking towards the elevators. They’d probably gone out for some real food or something. Barbeque.

“Going out on your lonesome again?” Matt says. He’s smiling but his eyes feel heavy again Mitch.

There’s no easy excuse. Mitch doesn’t really know anyone in Dallas, and as much as it’s not Matt’s job to babysit him—it’s  _ not— _ he doesn’t like the thought of his whereabouts being up for speculation. His thoughts are racing, and all he can think to say is, “Uh.”

Matt smiles wide, all teeth, and speaks lowly. “Really, Mitchy, we miss having you around. What’s wrong, don’t think you can get what you want here?”

Mitch stares up at Matt, legs on either side of his, and shrugs, shakes his head, fidgets. When he follows Matt back up, ride cancelled, it’s under the thin veneer of watching a movie or playing cards or something.

It’s stupid, is the thing, to actually do this with another alpha. Betas were safe. Neutral. It’s  _ stupid, _ but it’s so fucking easy to be taken and laid out across a stiff hotel bed. With Matt, he could feel the challenge in how his tongue licked into his mouth, past his teeth, hands keeping Mitch’s jaw open and receptive. Matt is a big guy, weight and tongue pressing Mitch down, and it’s objectively too much, more proving a point than sexual, which brings it right back to sexual for Mitch. He feels like putty, warmth sloshing around his insides, his thighs slick when he squeezes them together.

They’re still dressed, somehow—maybe Matt had been serious about just hanging out—and it’s shocking when skin meet skin. Matt pets Mitch’s stomach, scratches down his side, before wedging a hand down the back of his jeans. His fingers slide so easy over Mitch’s hole, just circling around it, never pressing in, making Mitch squirm.

“What do you want?” Matt asks, lips still brushing Mitch’s.

“What?” Mitch says. He wants his pants off, wants to be taken care of, but he doesn’t—

He leaves his mouth open, eyes wide, shifting restlessly under Matt. He knows how needy he looks like this, but he  _ wants  _ that, wants Matt to growl and yank down his jeans without Mitch having to say anything. They only go as far as his thighs, leaving him caught up when Matt reaches back around and wraps his hand around Mitch’s dick, still wet from Mitch’s slick. Mitch shivers and whines, making Matt huff, press his mouth against Mitch’s forehead. “God, I love how small you guys are, so sensitive—”

Mitch’s face burns. He rolls closer to Matt, tucks his face into his neck, breathing in melted caramel and getting even hotter at the newness of it until he  _ can’t  _ breathe anymore, just makes little hiccuping noises as he drips from both sides, over Matt’s hand and down the curve of his ass. It leaves him completely wrung out, pliant but tired. Matt is a good guy about it, just holding Mitch’s head in his lap, tongue out, as he jerks himself off, until his scent burns and he comes on Mitch’s cheek and maybe his hair, too.

They fall asleep in the same bed, Mitch held under Matt’s arm, not because it means anything but because that’s what alphas and omegas do.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

The flight goes smoothly the next morning. Mitch gets up early, as usual, to make sure everything is in the right place. He takes a long, scalding shower, but his thoughts never really come together, leaving his mind hollow. It’s not a bad feeling. Mitch spends three hours staring out the window, thinking about how empty the States are, and then he’s home. 

It’s fucking frigid when they land. Mitch pulls the collar of his coat up high and clings close to JVR’s back. They march penguin-like to their cars, where Mitch is surprised to find a familiar Lexus. After Mitch slides into the passenger side, he says, “You feeling better? I could’ve gotten a ride from Connor or something.”

Auston’s hand is on his neck immediately, his face, thumbing under his eye, and asks, “Are  _ you  _ alright? Everything went fine over the trip?”

“Yeah?” Mitch’s heart pounds hard and he presses his head harder into Auston’s hand, baring his neck. “Did something happen? Your head—”

“I’m fine. Better,” Auston interrupts, then winces. He just stares for a second, and it strikes Mitch how different he looks from the summer. Tiredness has locked up his jaw, his hair and eyes dark, maybe wet, stark against the white aftermath of the storm. “I think it’s fucking with the bond, though. I was freaking out so bad last night… I don’t know.”

Mitch blinks slowly and says, “I was just in the hotel all night—”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” Auston assures quickly, “just that I want to talk to somebody, maybe?”

Cars around them start pulling away, and Mitch mumbles, “I hate the doctors.”

Auston’s nostrils flare as he breathes in, out, then says, “This is kind of importnat.”

“Yeah, no, I know, it is to me, too, I just… are we going now?” Mitch responds. He knew it was weak.  _ Stupid. _

“I thought we could get breakfast first.” Auston says it casually, but when get into the restaurant, he tells the hostess they have a reservation. It’s delicious, of course, but Mitch can’t get past the quietness that developed in the car, guilt locking up his throat. Auston’s still wearing a hat, brim pulled low, but he does look good. His phone is on the table, and he pokes at it occasionally.

Mitch doesn’t jump when their eyes accidentally meet. Auston stares back, waiting for something, so Mitch smiles for him. He smiles back, relieved.

They pull up to some shiny clinic that Mitch has never been to, but he does recognize the name on the sign. He groans, “We’re going to the  _ team guy?” _

“Yeah?” Auston says, hesitating with his hand on the door handle.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Mitch states flatly. It’s too late to do anything. He gets out of the car. The lobby makes him feel claustrophobic, the world pressing in on him. Auston keeps a hesitant hand on him, his arm, the flimsy piece of leather on his wrist. Mitch flips through pamphlets with one hand. They do a lot of fertility treatments and shit here. How could they even  _ know?  _

A nurse takes them back, together. Mitch makes Auston sit on the exam table. Another nurse comes by for cheek swabs. Sometime long after that, Dr. Fuckface makes an appearance. He’s overly casual, if anyone asked Mitch, as he pulls open all sorts of charts and files at the computer terminal. Maybe it’s supposed to make the questions he asks about their relationship—how long have you been together, when’s your anniversary, how’s the lovelife—seem casual, too, except that’s all thrown out the window when he slips in, “Are you in an open relationship?”

The air in the room freezes, Mitch along with it. “No,” Auston says, absolutely.

The clicking stops, but the doctor inches on, “Nontraditional relationships are not unusual in this day and age, it’s not worth hiding in a medical setting. Mitchs deocoinen levels are unusually low for the level of commitment you’re claiming, which usually indicates—”

Mitch curls over on himself, arms crossed over his stomach, unable to let his last breath go. He’s sure he hears what’s said next, but he can’t process any of it, only moves again when someone grabs him and pulls. Even then, his legs feel stiff, alien, and it feels both mountainous and like he transported when he finds himself back in the passenger seat of the car. It smells like  _ theirs,  _ and a voice is saying  _ breathe,  _ so he does, with a crackling, ugly sob that hurts his ribs.

The voice morphs into Auston, whose hand is running down Mitch’s back, and he recoils on instinct. The hand jerks back, and Auston says, mildly, “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” Mitch chokes out. It’s all he can do. Raising his head from his knee feels like too much. Opening his eyes. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t. You told me forever ago about him, I should’ve listened. We can—I dunno. Somewhere else. I’m sorry,” Auston says quietly, evenly, like a fucking miracle. All the strings tugging Mitch apart dissolve, leaving him limp. “Are you seriously afraid of me right now?”

“Not of you. Just… the thought of losing this,” Mitch says roughly, so relieved it leaves him sore. He realizes it’s true as it leaves his mouth. 

Christ, it’s  _ Auston,  _ who lets Mitch breathe as he drives away, lets them eat like shit for the rest of the day, then only says something hours later over a ridiculous cake he had delivered. “When’s the last time we had sex?”

Mitch pauses from stealing frosting off an uneaten slice, then follows through to give him a few more seconds to respond. “I dunno. A little bit. You didn’t seem up for it.”

“I am now,” Auston says. “I’m not off strenuous activity anymore.”

“Emotionally,” Mitch clarifies, even though it feels bizarre, to talk about anything now. It takes him another moment to put together his thoughts and continue on, carefully, “Like, you were miserable because you’re hurt, and the losing streak… It’s been rough. And I don’t want to fuck now just to, like,  _ fix  _ things.”

Auston looks at him, assessing, affectionate, then says, “It wouldn’t be out of obligation for me, at least. I miss you. I’m attracted to you, if that’s slipped your attention. And I’m sorry that I’ve been a dick.”

Mitch rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, yeah, you’re hot shit, too,” and then, in a small admission, “It wasn’t just you, either. We’ll just do better together, alright?”

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

After an absolutely brutal game in Boston, Mitch is grateful for a homestand. Auston is almost there, working out more. They shop around a bit and find some alternative bond therapist who emphasized the importance of trust and communication and intimacy. Auston takes it all to heart. He’s getting better, working out more. Their trainers want to get him back in for the final push. It’s good, to be falling back into routine.

Auston is in a good mood leaving the practice rink one day, after finally being allowed a no-contact jersey and ice time. He’s smiley in the car, handsy in the elevator up, kisses Mitch’s neck when they get into their condo. “I have to nap,” Mitch argues, head bent an angle.

“I’ll knock you out,” Auston promises, teeth a bare pressure.

“Self burn,” Mitch says, but he finds himself in their bed not long after, head resting on his forearms and legs tucked underneath him. It’s hard  _ not  _ to get wet when he has someone as enthusiastic as Auston between his legs. 

It’s a peaceful two weeks, for the most part. 

Blueprint wants to do something with them for Valentine’s Day, but Mitch rejects the idea, redirects it towards everyone who spends every game in the family room. He can’t get out of brunch with his family: his parents, Chris and his newly minted fianc ée , and Auston. They match, on accident, because everyone thinks it’s a good idea to wear baby blue. 

His dad always enjoys getting Mitch and Auston together. They end up at opposite ends of the table, but that never stops him from leaning forward and saying, “The Jackets are really tearing it up this month. Auston, you’ve played with that Werenski kid before, right?”

“Dad,” Mitch pleads. 

Auston knocks their ankles together and smiles blandly, responding, “Not in awhile,” he responds.

“Paul,” Bonnie warns.

Paul scowls. “What? I’m just saying, they should be prepared for tonight. After the streak they’ve been on—”

“You’re right, we could’ve stayed home,” Mitch acknowledges. It’s stupid, that he has to lectured over a family brunch with his points being what they are, with the rest of the team looking how it does.

“I’m sure Coach Babcock has them sorted out,” Bonnie soothes over. “Now, Rachel, I’ve been meaning to get a good look at your collar, it’s absolutely  _ stunning—” _

Mitch grinds his teeth and stabs at some eggs. His mood is still soured when the conversation drifts back in his direction, Auston’s name on their lips, and he snaps, “He’s not even playing tonight.”

Silence follows, and he glances up to see amused faces. “Only into guys who’ve made the roster, eh?” Chris jokes.

“Chris,” Bonnie scolds.

Rachel leans in close to Mitch, conspiringly, and faux-whispers, “We were wondering when Auston was going to make an honest omega out of you.”

“Oh,” Mitch says, blinking.

“Whenever he lets me,” Auston answers, lightly, and the rest of the table chuckles. Mitch feels vaguely nauseated. He can only imagine how they look, the pairs of them. The next half hour is made up of obligate domesticity, before the game day schedule excuses Mitch.

He can’t sit still once they’re in the car. Mitch has been demoted back to the passenger seat, and they never driven enough for the glove box to have anything to distract him. He seriously considers shredding their small pile of paper napkins, before the fight claws its way out of his throat at a stoplight. “What the fuck was that?”

And Auston says, “What?” because he’s so fucking clueless.

“Fucking—acting like we’re gearing up to get married in front of my family.” It seems completely unimaginable. For all Mitch cares about Auston, they’re  _ twenty. _ He doesn’t want to settle that deep. Not yet.

Auston takes the turn carefully, and says, “I did mean it, though. I’m ready for—”

“Well, I’m fucking not!” Mitch explodes, louder than he intended, heart pounding, an angry burn spreading over his face. “Christ, I don’t get how you can think it’s time to be shopping around for  a collar after a medical professional telling you I’m not as into this as I should be.”

Mitch is mortified the second it leaves his mouth, first at what it says about him, then another guilty prickle when he thinks of how things have really been since he got back. How Auston blames  _ himself.  _ He keeps staring out the window, watches the familiar streets of Toronto slide by as the breath next to him starts hitching, getting wetter. Absently, he tugs the bracelet tight around his wrist, until it starts to hurt.

They make it to the parking garage closest to their building. Neither of them make a move.

“I’m sorry. That’s not… what I meant. I just want you, that’s all,” Auston says eventually, voice shaking. He  _ never  _ gets like this. Mitch can’t look at him. He exits the car without a word and lies in the guest room until it’s time to leave again.

They win, insider information on Werenski notwithstanding.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

The weekend starts, and Mitch has never been so happy to fly into Pittsburgh. The Penguins humble him for it. They’re on a plane to Detroit before the bitter taste on their tongues begins to dissipate.

Auston calls once Mitch is settled in the hotel, and he answers out of habit. Neither of them have much to say; Auston’s never been one to talk just for the sake of it, and even Mitch is starting to recognize his own voice as white noise.

“‘Course, Zach is, like—oh,  _ shit,” _ Mitch cuts himself off. He jumps off the bed, digs through the pockets of his bag, and, okay, yeah.

“‘Oh, shit?’” a tinny voice asks.

Mitch considers lying, for one stupid second. It’s not even something Auston would get mad about. “Forgot about my bracelet. Putting it on now.”

There’s silence, long enough to make Mitch look up from where he’s trying to fit the buckle single-handedly and wait. Finally, Auston says, “You don’t have to wear that. If you don’t want to.”

Mitch glances down at his hands. He’d had a tan line on his wrist over the summer, but it’s long gone now. The bracelet is holding up well; he takes it off plenty, worried about sweat messing with the leather. Still nice. The bracelet has always meant more to Auston than it did Mitch. Maybe it wasn’t fair to accept one—to  _ exchange  _ them—knowing that, but as much as thinking about their future makes Mitch queasy, he wants Auston. Their now. He decides, “No, I—no. It’s fine.”

Mitch knows there’s no way to keep this, the way they are now, the way  _ he  _ is.

He’s had a rough year. A sophomore slump. It needs to end. Auston deserves a better boyfriend than he’s been.

Mitch just needs to get it out of his system. One last scratch, and then he’s done. 

That’s what he tells himself as he bangs on Matt’s door, then squeezes past him when the door cracks open. There’s no one else in his room, so Mitch speaks quickly, before he loses his nerve, “Do you wanna fuck me?”

Something hot is throbbing in Mitch, but Matt just raises his eyebrows as he replies, voice flat, “Is this what counts as seduction nowadays?”

Mitch falters. It’s not like a lot went into this the first time, but that time had been quick. Unplanned. He hadn’t  _ asked, _ that night. Getting rejected now sends a cold tendril through Mitch. Still, hen he inhales again, there’s a crackling something in the air, like impatience or annoyance, but Matt doesn’t smell disinterested. It’s still a little embarrassing. Makes him feel young and inexperienced, even though he thought he’d left the former behind awhile back.

Hesitantly, Mitch walks up to Matt and puts his arms around his neck. Matt’s hands come up to his hips, neither pushing him away or pulling him closer. Mitch has to lean up to mouth at Matt’s bottom lip. How passive Matt stays, making Mitch work for it, is a sharp contrast against last time. It works, though, making Mitch feel more frantic every second he can’t coax a response out of him. He feels half-crazed by the time Matt pulls back and says, “That all you got?”

The scent of arousal is clear in the air now, and not only Mitch’s, but Matt is still so composed, looking down at Mitch, waiting for him to make the next move. His fingers shake on the waistband of Matt’s sweatpants, but they get dragged away. Mitch whines, a stupid, pitiful noise. This wasn’t supposed to be  _ hard. _

Matt shushes him, and coaxes, “Come on, baby, I already know you’re good for it. Why don’t you show me how much you want it?”

Again, Mitch feels a step behind, mind whirling. He watches Matt watch him as he reaches for the hem of his own shirt, then pulls it off at the look in Matt’s eyes. His hands trail back down his own chest and push down his shorts. Matt’s hand follows an inverse trail, just barely glancing the base of his barely-hard dick and then spreading wide on Mitch’s chest, gently pushing him back. “Get on my bed,” he says.

Mitch takes a few steps backwards, until the back of his knees hit mattress. At first, he just sits at the edge, watches at Matt walks the opposite direction and pulls the chair out from his desk, turns it to face Mitch. 

Mitch has never been particularly shy, but being  _ examined  _ like this sends a nervous shiver through Mitch’s stomach. He can’t even tell if Matt is hard, fully clothed and reclined as he is. Slowly, Mitch pushes himself further back against the headboard, trying to show himself off. Long neck, long legs. He keeps eye contact as he licks his fingers, his palm. Something about the unevenness, the vulnerability, must work for him on some level, because he’s already most of the way hard when he wraps that hand around himself.

Matt shows no outward response, big hand obscuring most of his face, but the air in the room gets heavier, and Mitch  _ knows  _ it’s not just him. He tries jerking harder, then teasing himself, pinching a nipple and rubbing a soothing hand over it, cupping himself, but none of it seems to be the right move, never gets a particular reaction. Mitch breathes in. He hitches up one of his legs, slides his already wet hand down to pet over his hole, and breathes out, “This makes me so fucking wet.”

Normally, with Auston, Mitch doesn’t have to say much in bed. Auston  _ delights  _ in taking him apart without a word of input, in knowing what gets Mitch going well enough to not need a guiding hand. But Matt isn’t Auston, a fact highlighted by this being what finally makes Matt’s eyes darken. He finally comments, “Yeah? Like putting on a show for me?”

“Uh huh,” Mitch says, briefly reminding himself of all the porn he’s watched with omegas just chanting _ yeah, yeah, yeah _ to whatever the alpha was doing, no matter how into it they actually looked. Mitch is into this. “There’s something I’d like a hell of a lot more, though.”

Finally, Matt is out of the chair and stalking towards the bed. Mitch feels very powerful when he sticks his foot on Matt’s clothed thigh, keeps him from getting any closer, and tells him, “Don’t think we’re working on the same level, though.”

Matt raises his eyebrows. Mitch curls his toes and tugs.

The toes’ command go ignored for a moment, long enough for Matt to strip off his hoodie. He’s bigger than Mitch, more built, and that’s always worked for him, leaves his mouth dry. His gaze follows those hands as the edge Matt’s pants down, slowly, first revealing cropped-short brown curls then warm purple of the base of his dick, hard and thick all the way down, his thighs. Mitch feels a surge of wetness against his fingertips and can’t resist sliding one in easy.

“This what you wanted?” Matt asks, and Mitch thinks he might be flexing a little bit, and Mitch is so fucking turned on.

“Closer,” he admits, teasing. Matt’s responding growl is gratifying, although he whines when his own fingers are ripped out of him before Matt grips him by the back of his knees and bends him in two, knees spread and tucked under his arms, leaving him fully exposed. Not everyone figures out how flexible he is right off the bat, except for teammates. They seem him stretch out enough. Mitch prods, “Gonna make it good?”

“With how easy you make it? How could I not,” Matt says, and Mitch doesn’t even have time to break that down before Matt is crowding over him on the bed, grinding his cock over Mitch’s waiting hole but never quite dipping in. He waits until Mitch is squirming, making little plaintive noises, before he slides home with one easy, searing thrust. Mitch shudders with it, a rolling tension then release.

Matt starts with a punishing pace, fingers digging in, and when he says, “Yeah, you fucking  _ love  _ this, slut,” it sends a jagged bit of something through Mitch that leaves his dick drooling against his stomach. There’s nothing domestic about it, and that’s good, one last hard fuck it get it all out.

Flexible or no, the position starts to wear Mitch out, the back of his thighs screaming at the strain. When he starts shifting in genuine discomfort, Matt pulls out, nudges him onto his side, then guides himself back in, one hand holding Mitch open for it. The new position is better, lets Mitch relax as he’s taken apart, mind sluggish, barely aware of anything but the heat building in his gut. Matt is grinding into him deep now, and it’s so good, must be for Matt, too, the way he’s gripping onto Mitch, holding him tight—

Matt’s panting on the back of Mitch’s neck and suddenly there’s pressure, so much pressure stretching him thin. He cries out, tries to squirm away, but Matt has him held tight, knot tugging at his rim and pressing his insides. There’s always a moment of panic, certain that it’s too big, he can’t take it, it’s not  _ right, _ followed by such an intense relief at how  _ perfect  _ it is, to be filled so completely. The adrenaline, euphoria—Mitch comes at some point, a secondary balm, leaving him completely empty. He lies content in Matt’s arms for a long while, not a thought in his mind.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Of course, time passes, knots deflate. At the first trickle of come down his thigh, panic jolts through every nerve in Mitch’s body.

_ “Fuck!”  _ he can’t help but yell, rolling away and off the bed. He stumbles on numb legs. They hadn’t even used a condom. “What the fuck, Matt, you weren’t supposed to fucking knot me!”

“You didn’t say  _ not  _ to,” Matt grouses. He doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled out on the bed.

“Fuck you, you know I’m fucking not—” Mitch cuts himself off and throws himself into the en suite. He lets himself start to think in the shower, as he cleans himself out. There’s a bond wrapped up in his chest, he’s fairly sure. One that isn’t creaking under any distance, because is bondmate is in the next room. 

Mitch turns it over and over in his head, but he can’t pinpoint when the other bond snapped.

Auston would know. For sure, by now.

A black hole forms in the center of Mitch’s heart, and he can’t breathe for a long couple of minutes. Over a year of something important dissolving into dust. Fuck, _Auston._

Mitch can’t even think about it. He throws the water back off and forces himself back out into the main room. His clothes are still in a pile near the door, and he doesn’t look towards the bed as he throws them on. Walking away from Matt hurts, a throbbing behind his eyes that spreads through the rest of his body as he rides down the elevator. It’s all fake, the new bond trying to solidify itself. He keeps going.

His phone’s home screen is filled with alerts, texts and calls and everything else. It’s not worth looking through all of it. He opens WhatsApp and sends  _ Not dead. Will call soon. _

The nearest CVS is close enough to walk, so Mitch does. His face is red and stinging by the time he gets there. He finds Plan B in the first aisle he checks, doesn’t blink through the cashier’s wince. Mitch tears into the package, pops open the blister pack, swallows the pill dry, and tosses everything else into the garbage before even leaving the store.

Mitch is tired. Everything in him feels drained, and he just wants to sleep until everything around him disappears. His notifications have filled again. It’s not fucking fair.

Once he’s back in the hotel, Mitch calls Auston, who answers halfway through the first ring with a single, broken word.  _ “Mitch.” _

“Hi,” Mitch says. There’s so much that needs to come out, too much that Mitch doesn’t want to admit to. Painful shivers run up and down his spine, knowing that things can’t stay the same after this. The walls around him don’t even seem steady anymore. He went too far. 

Fuck, he’s such an idiot.

And Auston’s talking, pleading, “Mitch, baby, please stop crying. I’m so sorry, I’ll do anything to fix this—”

Guilt constricts around the self preservation clogging up his throat, tying it tight enough for Mitch to snap, “Don’t fucking apologize. I slept with Matt. He knotted me, and it was too much—this isn’t what I wanted. But that’s what happened.”

The line falls silent for a long while, and Mitch waits for the verdict, heart pounding in his ears, only for Auston to ask, “What do you mean it wasn’t what you wanted?”

Mitch drives his palms into his eye sockets until the pressure sends light spiralling behind his eyelids. He says, “I didn’t want it to break want our bond. That’s all.” Maybe it would be easier the other way, if he hadn’t practically begged for this to happen.

Auston doesn’t say anything for a long couple of minutes. Mitch listens closely, trying to listen to his breathing, until the line goes dead. 

Maybe it would have been more cathartic for Mitch if Auston had exploded then, called him a whore and told him not to step foot in their apartment, but that’s not like him. Instead, the silence leaves Mitch restless. This will resolve itself. He’s fairly sure he knows how. For now, he waits in limbo.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Mitch ekes out a couple hours of unrestful sleep, and feels worse for it. The sickness isn’t all in his head anymore. Every bone in his body feels like it’s radiating a low, humming ache, one that can’t be sweated out with a hot shower or any centering meditation Mitch knows. He’s played through worse. When he goes downstairs, the only ones who will have any idea are Matt and their goaltending coach. Everyone else is a beta. This is what he tells himself.

On the bus, Matt takes the seat next to Mitch usually reserved for Auston, setting his every hair on edge.

“Relax,” Matt says, lowly, looking casual. “Did you break the bond?”

Mitch scoffs. “What, did you think I was going to keep it?”

The righteous air deflates when Matt snorts and explains, “Fuck, no. Just saying, you fucked yourself over not even sleeping on it first.”

Anger flares hot again, and Mitch snaps back. “Fuck you.”

Matt just rolls his eyes, then gets up to move deeper in the bus. It leaves Mitch feeling lonely, as stupid as that is.

At practice, Mitch is sluggish. He’s dialed in on his game enough to keep the coaches mostly off his back, but afterwards he’s directed towards the trainers. There’s no nagging injury, though, nothing that pings on a short physical, and near the end, one of them hesitantly asks if it could be related to hormones. “Just because of the road trip, nothing bad,” he assures Mitch. 

They have to call in the Red Wings’ doctor. Auston had filed a complaint against the Leafs’ guy, and they had gotten an apology from HR and an assurance that he would not be working for the team anymore. 

As the rest of the team sits through a Babcock tape session, Mitch gets to spill his life story to Dr. Ospina in two sentences.

“Hm,” she hums, and it kills Mitch, almost as much as knowing what she’s thinking about him would. “And how long after the second bond forms would you say it took for you to receive the emergency contraception?”

“I dunno, forty-five minutes? Plan B isn’t supposed to have side effects,” Mitch says. It hasn’t, before.

“No, not usually,” Dr. Ospina confirms. “And your urgency is understandable. However, I imagine you’re dealing with some anxiety right now? Feeling tense, tingling, a sense of dread?”

Mitch just nods and pulls nervously at his bracelet. He hadn’t taken it off since he said he wouldn’t. Maybe he should.

She explains, “Your deocoinen levels experienced quite the whiplash in a short amount of time, which can affect your entire system. It might seem contradictory, but taking a few bond strain suppressors should help in the short term. Long term, there shouldn’t be any concerns, but I suggest not initiating another bond until your symptoms dissipate completely.”

A bubble of hysteric laughter pops out of Mitch’s throat, then dies just as fast. Fuck Matt for being right. “I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

The doctor’s face makes a miniscule shift, a shade more genuine as she says, “You’re going to be alright, Mitchell. As far as tonight goes, if you feel that you can play, there’s no physical reason to keep you off the ice.” 

So Mitch gets his permission slip to play. They win. He gets an assist on an awkward bounce off the other guys’ goalie. Any pride evaporates as the equipment managers pack everything away and they start on their way home.

A text is waiting for him by the time they’re allowed to reconnect to the wifi in-air:  **We need to talk tomorrow.**

Tomorrow, not tonight.

Mitch is glad he never got rid of his condo.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

They have a light off-ice practice the next day, the wild card position making intradivision games all the more important. Auston doesn’t text Mitch in the morning, so he goes, decidedly not thinking about their impending conversation.

What Mitch forgets, of course, is how good Auston has been doing. Has been participating in home practices for awhile. Back in the lineup any day now.

Panic has become both all consuming and a meaningless word to Mitch. He plants himself in the front row of their tape room and doesn’t look left, right, or back, not at the burning red hots or tacky glaze, dedicating himself to looking interested in how well Ekblad is playing this season. Steve looks particularly uncomfortable, but it feels like everyone knows there’s a charged bomb in the room, even if they can’t finger the cause. Not yet. Still, for a moment, Mitch thinks this might be alright. They’ll get through this one terrible session, he’ll officially get dumped after, and everyone will move on with their lives. 

Then, Matt goes and opens his stupid, horrible mouth.

“Hey, Matts, good to have you back, we’ve been missing you out there.” It sounds innocent enough, except for the fact that it’s not, and what the fuck is even the point of saying anything? Goading him? How  _ stupid— _

A horrible crackling fills the air, followed by a rush of noise. Mitch is up and turned around in a second, but he feels like a deer in headlights as he watches Auston launch himself over a couple chairs at Matt, angry growls and alarmed yelling not quite covering a few wet, sickening sounds that fill the room. It takes a few guys to get them separated. Mitch is useless, staring as Auston gets dragged out, only following after him when Brownie nudges him forward with wide eyes.

This isn’t like Auston. At all. On the ice, fine, but Mitch has never seen him act maliciously off it.  He knew that breaking bonds can mess with alphas, but… jesus.

Babcock is talking to Auston, heads close, by the time Mitch approaches. He hesitates, but Auston looks quick, right at him, and Mitch gets another guilty cramp at the drained look on his face. He holds back until Babcock shakes Auston’s shoulder and walks away, nodding at Mitch as he goes.

Mitch takes a step closer, then stops.

Auston says, “We should have that talk.”

They ride back in Auston’s car, radio off. Eventually, Mitch can’t help but say, “If-if you’re having problems with it, emotionally, I talked to a doctor in Detroit…”

Auston snorts and rubs hard at his mouth, but doesn’t speak. Mitch takes the hint. 

In the apartment, it strikes him how quickly everything switched to smelling like _ Auston’s.  _ The car was the same. Mitch takes longer than it should to choose where to sit in a place he’s lived in for a year. Auston sits opposite of him.

He’s so fucking quiet, but Mitch can tell how angry he is, how much Mitch had destroyed him, in his eyes, the twitch of his jaw. It’s all he can do, to let Auston take his time.

He says, eventually, “You cheated on me.”

Mitch isn’t sure if that’s the sort of thing that needs to be confirmed, but he nods anyway, a minute drop of his chin.

“Was Saturday the first time?”

Mitch hesitates, then shakes his head no.

A harsh breath out later, and Auston can’t even look at him anymore. “So, what, you two just kept up this thing while I was out—”

“Me and Matt weren’t a  _ thing,”  _ Mitch interrupted. “Just—just twice. It was an accident the first time.”

“But not the second,” Auston infers, and then, “and just you and Martin. What, there were others, too, then?”

And Mitch can’t respond this time, torn up by how awful it looks lied out in front of him, in front of Auston, whose head has fallen into his hands. He says, muffled, “Jesus Christ, I get why Strome’s gay now.”

“He is not,” Mitch argues, except he barely has any idea what Dylan’s getting up to in Arizona, that bridge long burned down. “Don’t—don’t use his shit against him. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

And that gets him a fiery look, of all things. “It’s really convenient to only act loyal after the fact, huh?”

That is more like what Mitch expected from this, except it still cuts deep, hurts in a way he doesn’t like, and he can’t help but want to retaliate, didn’t make it this far by just taking it. “You know, you didn’t exactly make it  _ easy  _ to—”

“Don’t fucking turn this back around on me,” Auston yells, and it’s shocking enough to work. “Whatever I did has  _ nothing  _ on what you’ve done. I thought we could come work past this, that I could stop being so distant and you could stop being so fucking afraid of committing yourself. I thought it was a  _ fluke,  _ but instead our entire relationship has been a joke for I don’t even want to know how long. Would you have ever told me, if you didn’t get caught?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to fall silent, to think, and finally whisper, “I didn’t want to hurt you. I love you.”

Auston looks skyward. He says, “Right. Well, I’m going to go crash… somewhere. Get your shit out of my apartment.”

And then he’s gone.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

The kitchen, living room, and bathroom don’t take long. He dumps a two plastic bags worth of shit on his apartment floor.

In his and Auston’s bathroom, Mitch can’t last more than a minute without breaking down on the floor, on their bed, face buried in Auston’s pillow, sobs that come from the bottom of his soul. How could he ruin something so perfect?

Mitch falls asleep on top of their dirty laundry pile. He wakes up in agony, but throws a suitcase worth of shit together to take with him.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Auston gets assigned to the Marlies for a conditioning stint.

Matt gets traded on a Wednesday afternoon to New Jersey, a left-handed defenseman playing in Albany and a conditional second.

The trade deadline is a week away, and Mitch’s heart is pounding. Most of the team knows by now, he thinks, either by deduction or Auston telling them. Mitch has no clue how much he’s said. A lot, it feels like, talking to some of them. 

Mitch supposes this is why people say workplace relationships are a mistake. He knows it was his fault, and that they’re all Auston’s friends, too, but it feels so wrong, to be playing for the  _ Maple Leafs _ and hating it because there’s a scarlet letter painted on his face. Mitch  _ loves  _ this team.

Chris lives on the wrong side of town for Mitch’s commute, but that’s where he finds himself on his off hours. He finally tells Chris everything, and it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would, and he doesn’t get the validation he didn’t know he was looking for, either. 

On Mitch’s first empty off-day, he gets a text from Chris asking if he has plans. He appreciates the gesture, but responds:  _ Going out with Ethan, movie tmrw? _

His phone rings almost immediately. “What do you mean, ‘going out?’” Chris asks.

“What do you think I mean?” Mitch responds, annoyed. They weren’t really around each other, when it came time for the whole alpha older brother protects omega baby brother’s virtue thing, and it was one experience Mitch was not sad about missing out on. A little late, now.

Still, it  _ hurts  _ when Chris huffs hard and says, “Have you considered not being a slut for five minutes?” 

“... what the fuck?” Mitch hopes his voice doesn’t sound shakey.

“You cannot get mad at me for that, after everything. We’re talking dictionary definition here. When is the last time you’ve gone more than a couple weeks without picking up someone new?”

“That’s-that’s  _ not— _ it’s not any of your fucking business, to begin with,” Mitch says, feeling stupid and raw, then still feeling the need to explain, hesitantly, “The doctors said I might go into heat early, because of everything. I don’t want to be alone.”

_ “Everyone _ goes alone sometimes, Mitch, they live with it,” Chris argues, and Mitch is blinking hard when he continues, “Listen, I’m sorry, alright? This came out harsher than I meant it to. I thought there’d be more time to talk about this, because you  _ are  _ moving fast. Again. I don’t want you getting hurt again because you strung another one of your buddies along when you got lonely.”

Mitch feels flayed apart. They stay on the line for a few more minutes, Mitch accepts a few more apologies, but after he cancels on Ethan and goes to lie alone is his mostly barren bedroom.

 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

 

Mitch plays some of best hockey ever on shitty Florida ice. They’re banged up enough to be missing the extra men, but he gets a hattrick in Sunrise, getting him up to five points for the early weekday trip, and for a few glorious moments each time, the team loves him again for it. Killhorn messages him while he’s in Tampa, too, but Mitch ignores it.

They  _ win.  _ The mood carries into the locker room, and not far past it. No one’s outright hostile. Maybe Mitch is just more sensitive now, takes a lukewarm response to mean  _ no.  _ It’s not a good feeling.

The lady at the hotel bar glances twice at Chris’ ID, but hands over the bottle. Back in room, Mitch turns on the Food Network and drinks and lusts and drinks and sends,  _ We play such great hockey together. I miss you so fucking much. _

Mitch wakes up to a few missed calls, a text reading  **I didn’t ask them to** , and a trade alert from Vancouver.

**Author's Note:**

> Now, there are some things in this fic that may seem unlikely:
> 
> 1) Regarding having Auston explain “queso”— I would not have assumed something so basic if I hadn’t been in that exact position before, with a Swedish dude in his twenties who’d lived in California since he was eight.  
> 2) Deocoinen is made-up (obviously) hormone roughly put together from the Google Greek deó (to bind) and koinonia (joint participation, in the biblical sense). I dismissed a proper Latin name on account of it looking bad.  
> 3) The trades in this fic were generated by what can only be described as a cruel random number generator and a couple quarters.
> 
>  
> 
> [Porn 'n' writing blog.](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com)


End file.
